Hush my Darling
by Max Howle
Summary: Teenlock. Sherlock must find a way to move on after John moves away. However he finds the task far more impossible than first thought as he finds himself painfully alone and looking for a way to escape. John comes back for a small visit and finds that his visit may be too late to help Sherlock.


Hush My Darling

Black rings traced under Sherlock's neon silver blue eyes, though there normally vibrant color had faded to something dull and lifeless. With little grace Sherlock unlocked his front door and slipping into the dark house. The building was cold, dark, and lonesome, but Sherlock didn't mind. He was use to the small ache for warmth in the dark.

Sherlock closed the door and raised his hand to his eyes; they were puffy and soar from the lack of sleep. It had been ages since Sherlock remembered getting over an hour of sleep. His mind had been specifically ravenous for attention, putting thoughts before any other need, if he choose to or not was hard for even himself to tell. With a deep sigh Sherlock walked over to turn on the lights, making the tremendous house glow.

The house was more accurately a small mansion, with over twelve rooms and a pool out back; it was by no means small. However Sherlock barely noticed the massive size anymore, it seemed everywhere he went was just as cold and lonely. Sherlock hated it.

Tossing his bag to the floor and his keys on the counter Sherlock walked down the long corridor to the center room of the home. He hesitated at the end of the hall, looking at the mirror that decorated the wall before it opened into the next room. He scowled, even though clothes covered his cool skin Sherlock could almost see the scars, cuts, and bruises that decorated more of his skin than not. He could almost see the deep scars that laced his wrists, the other marks on his skin brought from the countless beatings he had gotten as long as he could remember from classmates.

Snapping out of his thought Sherlock made his way to the large center room of his house, it was the size of a small ball room, however, he found no amazement in its size. With a soft sigh Sherlock looked around the room.

A beautiful black ebony piano sat at the far end of the vast room, facing to the large windows that made up one entire wall, looking into the back yard. The other side of the room a silver railed staircase led to the small balcony that over looked the piano, and then extended to a corridor of more empty rooms. As Sherlock took in the room he could hear the start of the rhythmic beat of rain outside, cascading down the windows.

Sherlock walked to the glass door beside the piano, watching the rain fall into the pool that took up almost half of the large yard, the wind lightly shifting through the trees. The soft sent of the rain shifted through the large empty room, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. He swallowed and turned away, his heart clenching slightly as he thought of the one person who had always gone on about how much he adored the rain.

The air suddenly seemed to freeze more, and Sherlock rubbed his arms, trying to keep the goose bumps from creeping down his flesh. His lips held the ghost of a name as he walked to the staircase, not impressed by the detail of the staircase like he used to be when he was younger. He scaled the stairs, walking to the edge of the indoor balcony and looking down at the piano. It seemed to mock him. Sherlock never learned how to play it, Mycroft had promised to teach him years ago, but it had never happened.

Sherlock passed a few small bedrooms until he reached his own at the far end of the house. The only closed door in the house Sherlock silently opened the door and stepped into the large room. It was almost sterile how clean it looked. The bed had silk black sheets, matching the large velvet curtains draped over the windows. Sherlock looked at his bed; it was made inexplicably well, as if no one had slept on it in ages, which was actually very close to the truth. There was a large bookshelf that held what seemed like millions of books, even though the house had its own library Sherlock still chose to keep some books in his own room.

Sherlock didn't look around much more, it still hurt, after all this time to think of how he shared that bed with someone before. He grabbed a rather large book from his collection from the far side of the room, turning around sharply and making his way out. Yet, despite his best attempts, Sherlock's eyes darted to the small grainy picture framed on his nightstand. He couldn't help walk closer, dropping the book on the bed sheets with a small thud.

A picture of himself and another teen looked back at him. Sherlock had been fifteen when they had taken it, it was hard to believe that it had been an entire year since then. The other teen smiling back was shorter that Sherlock, with soft short blond hair and deep blue eyes that sparkled with happiness, yet a hint of guilt and sadness hid beneath the surface. Sherlock realized he reflected the look in the picture, that must have been the last time Sherlock ever felt the smallest joy in a smile.

"John." Sherlock whispered, tracing a thumb over the picture of the blond boy in the picture, Sherlock had to look away and take a deep breath to push down the emotions that came bubbling up from under the surface. Sherlock placed the picture back down, willing himself to get angry at the picture, at the smiling faces that mocked him. Yet, all he felt was a sickening empty void.

Sherlock looked over at the small mobile that sat on the nightstand beside where he had placed the photo. It's glowing screen showed he had over twenty texts and fifty missed calls. With a shuddered breath he picked up the small device and unplugged it. Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the screen.

He flicked through the text messages, a couple from his brother, talking about his plan to visit Sherlock soon, they were sent almost two weeks ago. Had it really been that long since Sherlock had looked at his phone?

Mycroft had planned on visiting but never did, he always canceled. Sherlock tried to understand that Mycroft was moving up in the world and between work and collage Mycroft found it difficult to see Sherlock but it still pissed him off.

The other almost fifteen messages were from John. Sherlock felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Almost a month after John had left Sherlock had stopped talking to him. Not that Sherlock didn't care, but Sherlock hated talking to John, it did nothing but hurt him and Sherlock was sparing them both pain, right?

It took every ounce of strength in Sherlock not to reply to John's texts. He went to the very first ones John had sent when Sherlock began ignoring him. It started with John starting normal conversations, 'How are you? Are you ok? What's wrong? Why won't you answer me? Sherlock?' and the text messages soon turned more desperate. John panicked a lot, but Sherlock had never replied. The last had been sent in the past week, John hadn't texted him in almost half a year. Sherlock bit his lip as he read them. They were all the same message, Simply 'Sherlock? –JW'

Sherlock wondered why John would be messaging him now, after so long apart. Sherlock was still mad at John for leaving. John had been Sherlock's first kiss, first love, first everything. He had made Sherlock feel like he belonged and was loved. Then one day, out of nowhere, John had took Sherlock to dinner in the city. It wasn't the nicest food or place, but it looked out onto the large lake outside the park. John had paid even though Sherlock had more than enough money. When they were heading back home, Sherlock knew something was wrong.

They had made their way to the other side of the park, a small bench that looked over the lake. John had been so edgy that night. Sherlock had smiled at him, it was of complete honesty, trust, and love laced in that smile. Sherlock hasn't smiled like that since.

John had kissed Sherlock as the moon cast over the lake, making the world shimmer silver. He kept saying he was sorry. Sherlock asked why. And John told him, told him how he was moving to Dublin, he gave so many reasons why he was leaving, why he couldn't stay, why it would be ok, how they could do a long distance relationship. That night was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock cry.

When John was gone Sherlock's bullies returned, and with John gone Sherlock started drugs again, he never slept, self-induced pain became his escape once more. He had almost overdosed countless times. And that's where Sherlock was now. A druggie with a broken heart.

'Sherlock? –JW' The mobile buzzed in Sherlock's palm almost tentatively. He took a sharp breath, recollecting himself as he looked at the small glowing screen.

Sherlock sat there for almost ten minutes, his mind racing if he should reply or not. With a deep sigh Sherlock stood briskly, and let a yell escape his lungs as he threw the phone across the room, it smashed against the wall, Sherlock was positive he at least cracked the screen. Sherlock stormed over to his massive bookshelf, tipping it over the loud crash accommodated the loud pained scream that tore from Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock paced back and forth in the room, his breathing rapid, his knuckles white as he balled them up and his teeth aching from how hard he clenched them. Sherlock had a flashback of what had happened when John left. Sherlock had blamed himself, he had smashed a gorgeous glass vase that held delicate roses in the library, then like an idiot managed to slice open his foot on the glass. Sherlock knew that after the conversation John had gone off and punched a brick wall, the next day when they had said goodbye, when they had taken the picture, John's fist had bloody gauze on his knuckles, a simple deduction led to the conclusion of what John had done.

Sherlock yelled again, upset with his own mind, how dare it curse him with those memories? Why did he have to hurt himself so much? It was just like the rain that John had always loved so much. A dessert's blessing, an ocean's curse.

Sherlock found himself in the light orange of the morning. His head throbbed, his body trembled, and he felt like he had gone through a wood chipper. Sherlock was in the downstairs bathroom, all the lights in the house were out, he wondered when he did that, he didn't remember. The house was a mess, glass and books and papers and furniture was littering the use-to-be clean house. Sherlock saw two wine bottles in the hallway outside the bathroom, and blood surrounding him.

Sherlock stood up painfully slow, then looked at himself in the mirror. His hair stuck up in millions of places, his wounds from Carl Powers and his friends beating him up the day previous had reopened and were bleeding. Sherlock's eyes were dull and almost seemed dead. His body trembled, Sherlock's head spun painfully, he leaned on the counter. Suddenly pain erupted from his arms, Sherlock looked down, blood still oozed from the open cut on his wrists and upper arms, clotting and covering him in crimson and drying rust color.

Disappointment flooded Sherlock. Why the hell was he still here? Why wouldn't he just die already? Sherlock had nothing to live for, no one to be, no one to love or be loved or live for. Sherlock let the blood leak down his arms; the wounds couldn't be too old. He must've only been out a few hours.

Sherlock could feel the tears prick at the back of his eyes, not for the pain, for the fact he hadn't died. Every time this happens, drunk or not Sherlock cuts deeper, but he always wakes up. ALWAYS. It was like some sick ride that refused to let Sherlock go. It just wanted him to suffer.

Sherlock was shirtless, though he barely cared. He found his mobile right outside the door after taking(what he wished was too many) pills to calm his raging hangover.

It's shattered screen glowed up at him, as if eager to show him its continence. Sherlock winced as he walked out into the ballroom, drying blood on his body and objects spread about, though Sherlock hardly noticed. His messages looked different. He opened John's messages. 'Sherlock, I know you probably will not reply, but I'm telling you anyways-' Sherlock was disrupted by the doorbell. Sherlock could almost scream in irritation.

Sherlock shuffled passed broken glass and things that splayed on the floor, shuffling to the door. The sun gave him enough light to see, but was still slightly dark, casting everything in a world of shadows. Sherlock reached out for the door, his wrists letting a sharp pain erupt up his arm. Sherlock winced. He was past caring if anyone found him in this state, bleeding, tussled, half dressed and hangover.

Maybe if he was lucky it would be Mycroft, who would take Sherlock to a hospital. They might have medication for Sherlock. For his mind to stop thinking all the time, for him to calm down. That seemed nice.

The doorbell rang again and Sherlock jumped, tightening his grip on the door handle. He looked at the mobile as he tensed to open the door. 'anyways, I'm coming out for a few weeks, when my plane gets there I'll drop my stuff off at the apartment and come visit, ok? –JW'

Sherlock's mind was to slow to fully comprehend the message until the door was fully open and John stood on Sherlock's doorstep, a small smile and the same scruffy blond hair brushed down, eyes sparking like they use to, a plane red shirt and jeans as he use to where. Some things apparently never change.

Sherlock's cracked lips unconsciously pulled into a sad broken smile, haft thinking it was a dream. John's smile slipped from his lips the second the door opened. There stood what he could only assume was Sherlock Holmes. Black curls were bloody crusted and stuck up in every direction. His lip were dry and a long cut split Sherlock's lip from where Carl Powers had punched him. His bare chest was covered in cuts and bruises trailing down his body as if they were growing every second, stealing every inch of silky white skin and damaging it. His beautiful eyes were lifeless and dead. The smell of whiskey and wine seemed to radiate off of Sherlock's body, his once gorgeous face looked ten years too old and his body looked ten years starved. John could make out every rib and Sherlock's faint heart beat even from where he stood. Most noticeable was the blood that continued to lace itself down Sherlock's arms and creeping down his body like bloody rose vines, lacing and trailing down Sherlock, blooming roses of red at his continuously bleeding wrists.

"John." Sherlock's voice was barely over a whisper, he forced his eyes open, looking at his old lover with something his wished was hate but knew was want and longing.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, as if on que Sherlock collapsed, John barely able to catch him before he hit the floor. John held back a gasp, Sherlock looked like he would shatter if John touched him, but John had no choice as he picked the helplessly light younger into his arms and navigated to Sherlock's bedroom, the stairs hardly a problem.

Sherlock looked so fucking thin, John couldn't keep from lightly kissing Sherlock's forehead before leaving to get Sherlock bandages and fix the disaster. He had to keep from replying every time Sherlock mumbled 'I love you" to keep himself sane.


End file.
